I made several turns and seemed to get nowhere fast. Figuring we’d gone far enough to bypass the traffic jam, I decided to head back toward Earhart.
Not far from Xavier University, a predominantly black college, I passed a mob of about ten zombified students. Soon afterward, I spotted a group of white middle-class men and women huddled inside an open garage, dressed in business casual clothing and carrying suitcases. When they saw my vehicle, they darted toward the street, waving their arms and shouting.
“Please give us a ride,” a blonde lady in her mid-thirties pleaded.
“We need to get out of here,” a tall, dark-haired man in his early forties added.
As I drove past them, I realized not a single one of them carried a weapon. I don’t mean a gun either. I mean, none of those idiots even had a bat or a fucking golf club.
Glancing in the side-view mirror on my left, I watched the pack of zombies take notice of the fresh meat. I really didn’t need to see another group of undead devour another bunch of desperate humans, like the ones outside Louis Armstrong Park. Darwin might’ve been right — evolution was all about survival of the fittest — but still, I wasn’t a completely heartless asshole. Or at least I tried not to be.
“Fuck.” I slammed on the brakes, unbuckled my seatbelt, and bolted to the back of the van. After securing the tarp over my arsenal, I opened the rear doors and beckoned toward the six people. “Get in,” I ordered. “Quick!”
Still gripping their expensive-looking suitcases like their lives depended on it, the half a dozen idiots — three men and three women — jogged toward my van and clambered inside. When the last of them had tossed his luggage onto the floor and scrambled after it, I shut and locked the doors, just as the group of zombies reached us. Thumps resounded around the vehicle as the undead bodies tossed themselves against the back and side doors.
As the thuds and groans loudened, I hastened between my six new passengers, some of whom had already made themselves comfortable on the sofa or at our dining table. Quickly, I reclaimed the driver’s seat, stepped on the gas pedal, and sped down the street.
“Thank you, mister,” a woman said.
“Yes, thank you,” a few others echoed.
I had just turned onto Calliope Street, planning to use South Jefferson Davis Parkway as a shortcut back to Earhart, when the tall, dark-haired man stepped between the front seats, gazed at Azazel’s carrier, and grasped the seatbelt. Before he could unbuckle her, she hissed at him.
“No,” I said, “the carrier stays there. She’s all strapped in and asleep.”
Azazel hissed at him again, both to underscore and undermine my point.
The man shot me a disgruntled look but released the seatbelt. His displeasure only deepened when I hit a particularly large pothole and he nearly lost his grip on the seat.
I kept one hand on the steering wheel as I buckled my own seatbelt. “Hey, why don’t you sit back there? Could get too bumpy to stand.”
Balancing himself against the seat, he shot me one more nasty look before taking my advice and returning to his friends.
As I turned right onto Jefferson Davis, I slowed down and glanced over my shoulder at the expectant faces staring at me. “My name is Joe.”
Most of them nodded or said “hello,” but none of them introduced themselves.
Checking the road ahead, I asked, “Why don’t you all have any weapons?” I glanced back at my inconvenient passengers. “Don’t you know what’s going on?”
“We were supposed to be picked up by the National Guard, but they never showed up,” a balding red-haired man explained in a nasally voice.
I shot him a so fucking what look, then faced forward again. “You should all still have weapons. Just in case.”
“I don’t own a gun,” one of the women said. “None of us do.”
“Doesn’t have to be guns,” I replied. “Even a crowbar would be helpful against a hungry zombie.”
While I’d initially thought each of my new passengers had a profound death wish, I realized the truth was much simpler: they were just clueless. Well-to-do types, either residents from a fancy Uptown neighborhood or executives in town for a convention. Either way, they were probably the least prepared — or least resourceful — people I’d encountered so far, and I wondered how the hell they’d survived for so long.
“Well, listen,” I said, turning onto Earhart, “I’m heading to Baton Rouge. I can take you all as far as that.”
An uncomfortable silence greeted my offer. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed a few of them exchanging frowns and arched eyebrows. Now, what?
Before I lost my patience, I decided to ignore them for a while and just continue driving down Earhart, swerving around bodies, zombies, and stalled cars whenever necessary. Eventually, I planned to merge onto South Clearview Parkway and turn onto Airline Drive, which would ultimately become Airline Highway and hopefully guide me all the way to Baton Rouge — and to Clare.
Chapter 31
“Good. Bad. Iʼm the guy with the gun.”
– Ash, Army of Darkness (1992)
A few minutes later, I heard murmurs behind me. My passengers had begun talking amongst themselves, quietly enough that, with my compromised hearing, I couldn’t understand their words. Clearly, they didn’t want me to understand.
I gazed down at my hip holster. Wisely, I’d checked the .38 before leaving Home Depot — just to ensure it was fully loaded. Since my passengers weren’t likewise armed, I wasn’t exactly worried. Just annoyed.
“Jesus,” one of the women suddenly said. “Why’s it so hot in here? Do you have the heater on?”
“I’m having radiator problems,” I explained without turning around. “The heat helps to keep the temps down.”
“Well, can you turn it off?” one of the guys asked. “Maybe turn the A/C on instead?”
“I said…” I began emphatically, “…the radiator is having some trouble. The heat needs to stay on. Sorry.” Can’t believe I just apologized to these asshats.
“Listen,” another guy interjected, “maybe we need to talk about where we’re headed.”
“What?” Had I heard him right?
“Yeah,” one of the women added, “maybe we should vote on where we should go.”
“I’m going to Baton Rouge,” I repeated. My van. My decision. Piss off if you don’t like it.
“That’s not right,” another woman protested. “There are seven of us in here. We should all have a say.”
What the holy fuck is going on? What’s wrong with these people? I had kindly welcomed them into my van, just moments before they would’ve become zombie food, and that was how they repaid me: by staging a mutiny?
As far as I was concerned, even Azazel’s opinion counted more than whatever those pricks wanted — and I was positive that, if she could’ve spoken English, she would’ve ordered me to keep heading toward the state capital. Where her beloved mama was.
“Yeah, we should turn around and head east,” the whiny redhead stated. “We heard Baton Rouge was almost as bad as New Orleans.”
“Look,” I said through gritted teeth, “I’m going to get my wife in Baton Rouge. You can either ride there with me, or I can let you out now.”
“No, we should drive to the East Coast,” the redhead repeated.
That’s it. I’ve had enough of this bullshit.
Slowly, I unbuckled my seatbelt and, reaching downward, pulled a towel-covered bundle from beneath my seat. While still navigating my way down Earhart, I carefully unrolled the towel, slid the contents of the bundle into my lap, and leaned sideways to cover Azazel’s carrier.
“Yeah, we have friends in Savannah,” another man said. “Joyce and I think that’s where we should go.”
Murmurs of agreement followed his proposal.
“Yes,” a woman, presumably Joyce, concurred. “Savannah is the perfect choice. Our friends have an enormous house by the coast.”
“Uh, Joe, is it?” Ugh. The whiny redh
ead again. “Could you turn around? We need to take I-10 East.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed all three of the guys had risen to their feet and were slowly approaching me.
So, that’s how it’s gonna be? After I saved your fucking lives?
I kept driving and gazed down at my lap.
From the dining table, one of the women must have been watching me. “What’s that?” she asked.
“A gas mask,” I replied, calmly pulling it over my face.
Then, before anyone could react, I slammed on the brakes, stopping my vehicle in the middle of the westbound lanes of Earhart Expressway. The three men tumbled onto the floor, and the women yelped.
I held out my right hand. With my left, I yanked the pin from the tear gas grenade and dropped both onto the floor. “Get the fuck outta my van!” Just in case, I pulled my .38 from its holster.
As the gas quickly filled up the van, I made sure the towel was tucked tightly beneath the edges of Azazel’s carrier. The next instant, my new passengers’ confusion morphed into horror. Screaming in pain, they hastily stumbled toward the rear doors. Some still gripped their suitcases, others had left them behind, but all of them wanted off the ride.
With undoubtedly stinging eyes, the dark-haired man fumbled with the locks for what seemed like forever, then he pushed open the doors and tumbled into the street. His compatriots swiftly followed, still shouting and crying and cursing my name.
As soon as the last woman dropped out, I put my foot on the gas and rolled about fifty feet forward before stopping again. I walked toward the rear of the van and turned on the high-capacity fan I’d mounted to the ceiling. Figured it would help to dissipate the gas and blow it out of my vehicle. Meanwhile, I tossed the remaining suitcases onto the road, kicked the tear gas canister outside, and, still wearing the gas mask, observed the assholes I’d just unceremoniously gassed and dumped into the street.
In theory, Clare wouldn’t have approved of what I’d done, but if she’d realized just how close I’d probably come to losing our vehicle — and perhaps Azazel, too — she might’ve reconsidered.
As for me, I simply couldn’t muster sympathy for the six ingrates coughing in agony on the asphalt, clutching their faces and rubbing their eyes. They’d accepted my charity without question and all but spit in my face. Sooner or later, selfish people like them would get others killed. In the end, maybe I’d done a service for my fellow survivors.
For a moment, I stood in the doorway, not really rationalizing my actions… cuz fuck them. Then, as I pulled one door shut, I noticed a figure step into the street, about thirty feet behind the van. It wasn’t a zombie, at least not like all the others I’d seen. For one thing, it seemed to walk with purpose.
Abruptly, it stopped, turned its head, and stared at me. I couldn’t help but scan its features; my curiosity was just too overwhelming.
Even through my gas mask, I could tell it wore ragged pants, with no shoes or shirt. It had well-defined muscles — and sparse patches of hair on its body. Incredibly, it showed no signs of decomposition whatsoever.
Strangely, its hands featured long nails, as if they hadn’t been cut in years. Really, they seemed to resemble claws.
As we continued to gaze at each other, I realized that, unlike the zombies I’d encountered all day, the creature appeared to possess some measure of intelligence. While I’d been assessing it, its eyes had been surveying me, too, as if its brain was trying to process what it had just witnessed.
It definitely wasn’t a zombie, but I wasn’t sure it was fully human either.
Whatever the fuck it was, I needed to get out of there. I just needed to keep moving forward.
Turning away from me, the creature headed toward the huddle of my former passengers as they continued to cry and cough. While locking the rear doors, I saw it close the gap by leaping the last ten feet and bowling into the group. Heartless as it might sound, I didn’t intend to watch the carnage about to occur.
A moment later, I’d returned to the driver’s seat, laid the mask on the floor, and removed the towel from Azazel’s carrier. She gazed at me with moist, red-rimmed eyes and meowed sadly. Despite my precautions, the tear gas had obviously seeped into her carrier.
“I’m sorry,” I said, opening the gate. “I know you don’t understand why your eyes are stinging, but I promise it’s for a good reason. Your papa had to protect you from a bunch of selfish fucktards.”
Slowly, she emerged from the carrier, hopped onto the floor, and stretched her legs.
“No matter what, though, I think you’ve earned a walkabout.”
While Azazel made a beeline for her litter box, I shifted the van into drive and stepped on the gas. Back on track again, I breathed a little easier.
Shit. I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten to put Clare’s ring back in her jewelry box. Once again stopping, I felt my pocket for the round outline and exhaled a sigh of relief when I realized it was still there.
What a nightmare if I’d lost it somewhere during the day’s surreal adventures… if it had slipped out of my pants when I’d tumbled in Home Depot or crawled across the makeshift bridge or crashed into the cat litter display inside the Pet Mart. No way in hell I’d return to the city, but still, I’d have felt like a real jackass for risking my life for it in the first place.
Luckily, though, I didn’t have to fixate on that. I just needed to keep my eyes on the road, focus on seeing Clare again. And fuck if I’ll be picking up any more strangers. My altruistic vein had just run dry.
Emerging from her litter box, Azazel looked up at me. A single tear dribbled down her furry cheek. The tear certainly wasn’t for the idiots we’d just dumped on the road. I didn’t feel bad for them, and I doubted she did either. I did, however, feel guilty that, even with the towel over her carrier, she’d unfortunately suffered a bit from the gas. After the harrowing day we’d had, I definitely owed her some tuna.
“It’s alright, girl. Those people sucked ass.”
I didn’t know what that creature was I’d just seen, but I knew I didn’t want to mess with it. It was time to get the fuck out of New Orleans. I simply needed to get to Clare and keep heading north.
Even over the rumbling engine, I heard a loud screech from behind us. Gazing at my side-view mirror, I realized not one of the assholes was moving. Worse, the figure stood nearby, staring at us.
A few seconds later, it had vanished.
Fuck this.
I hit the gas and continued down the expressway, hoping nothing and no one delayed me from reaching my wife. After the fucking horrific day I’d had, even my mother-in-law would be a welcome sight.
Well, not sure I’d go that far. But who knows? Stranger things had certainly happened.
Survive the Zombie Chaos
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Look for Zombie Chaos Book 2: Highway to Hell — coming in October 2017...
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About the Authors
Former residents of New Orleans, Laura and Daniel Martone now travel the country in their mobile writing studio, a cozy RV dubbed Serenity. As you might have guessed, they’re huge fans of Firefly, which is why they remodeled the interior of their RV after Captain Reynolds’ beloved spaceship. Together, they enjoy writing space opera, urban fantasy, time travel, epic fantasy, and, of course, post-apocalyptic zombie tales.
Acknowledgments
We appreciate the support from our fellow writers — and the inspiration gleaned from various zombie flicks and TV shows, especially Shaun of the Dead, The Walking Dead, and George Romero’s Dead movies — as well as our
fellow fans of such stories.
Of course, we couldn’t have started this series — or finished this book — without the love and support of each other and our beloved kitty, Ruby Azazel. Lastly, we’re grateful to you, our fellow survivors, for joining Joe on his harrowing journey through zombie-filled New Orleans and beyond.
Zombie Chaos Book 1: Bloodbath in the Big Easy Page 16